


The First Thursday

by clownfrogg



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-06
Updated: 2012-09-06
Packaged: 2017-11-13 16:44:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/505604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clownfrogg/pseuds/clownfrogg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After taking a vessel for the first time, Castiel reflects on his doubts, his feelings about the Earth, and what it means to be human.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Thursday

A full moon hangs heavy in the clear, star-spangled night sky and there’s salt on the wind. His tongue darts out over dry, cracked lips and captures a burst of crisp ocean flavor, tangy and light and new. He can feel it on his skin, the dry breeze crashing against him like waves on the shore and clogging his ears with the rush. It makes his clothing flap and reminds him of how it sounds when he flies. The body – his body – is rooted in wet sand. If he stays perfectly still, it will suck him down, down, down with every ebb and flow of water over his feet. He likes the unyielding dependability, so, he stands, transfixed by the expanse of undulating blue-blackness before him.

He had always been told that the Earth was blue and green. It isn’t a lie, but he’s unprepared for the perfect fusion of dark sky and ocean on the horizon. The effect would be disconcerting if not for the rippling reflection of the moon to mark the separation. He wants to free himself from the confines of his human vessel – to stretch out and kiss forever with the tips of his celestial being. He sees tomorrow and tomorrow; endless, assured and reassured eternity before him and it is good.

Suddenly, his eyes burn and his chest is on fire. He feels over the flesh and muscle, but there are no flames, only discomfort and something invisible pressing down, making it hard to breathe. His fingers are stiff with lack of practice and he bends them at the knuckle, flexing them over and over again, awestruck. He doesn’t have appendages in his true form with which to grasp and take; to travel firmly in one direction; to dig down into the ground and feel the Earth on him and around him. No, he _is_ and _was_ and _will be_. In his true form, he engulfs and envelopes; transcends and consumes; there is no containing and distinguishing him from other manifestations.

He begins to panic; what is this strange and foreign oneness? He is no longer all, but singular. Unique. Individual. Alone.

Not alone.

He hears the distant murmur, the ever present white noise of heavenly chatter ringing in the deep recesses of his mind and is overwhelmed by the calming convergence of truth and faith. Perhaps it’s too much; perhaps there’s a desire for less; to disconnect for just a moment; to genuinely and wholly embrace the silent magnitude of this momentary humanity; to really feel and understand the sever between these creatures and The Host.

He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to imagine it; tries to shut out the voices of his brothers and sisters; to ignore the song reverberating in his ears; cut himself off from the safety of home; be at peace; at peace; peace.

No.

Opens his eyes.

Looks around.

Do they know?

What has he done?

He falls to his knees, the entire vessel quivering around him, fighting to contain him. The burning in his eyes returns, this time, accompanied by a strange wetness. His heart is beating so fast. Is this what human death feels like? Confusing and frightening and moist? He deserves it. He deserves every horrible second of suffering.

_Repent, then, and turn to God, so that your sins may be wiped out, that times of refreshing may come from the Lord._

_Yes, Father._

He is not smote. He is not dying.

He looks up through the tears in his eyes and blinks the blur away. Once. Twice. He sucks in a deep breath, tasting bitter air again, digging his knees and fingers and toes into the sand, steeling himself resolutely.

_Don’t do that again._

No. He won’t. He won’t do that again…

_For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand._

He lifts his face and feels the wind in his hair this time. Pushes himself up off the ground and rubs his thumb and forefinger together over rough grains of sand.

_Remember this touch._

He will; and when he is back in the cool embrace of The Host, he will recall the coarseness of the Earth and remember, when he is watching, what it felt like to have fingers.

What it felt like to despair.

What it felt like to cry.

He’s not sure why, but he knows this will be important later.

_Those who do not weep, do not see._

**Author's Note:**

> "The Stolen Child" by William Butler Yeats  
> Acts 3:19 NIV


End file.
